Twas the restoration period before Christmas, when under the roof,

Not a creature was stirring, not even a Poof.

Hosiery was meticulously suspended by hooks on the wall,

In anticipation that visitation from St Nicholas would befall.

 

The offspring were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of bousou spread danced in their heads.

And Seepa with her dangly bracelets, Bleeker in his cap,

Had just settled their cerebrums for a long Martian nap.

 

When out in the laneway there arose such a dissonance,

I tripped over the bed to see what was outside the residence.

I stumbled to the entrance though I intended to march,

Threw open the latches and stooped under the arch.

 

The glow from the lighting on fallen red dust,

Gave lustre to objects corroded by rust.

When to my optical sensory organs should appear an apparition,

A…